Comfort In Ink
by SavvySlick
Summary: The Doctor mulls over one of his newfound bad habits...


Billy enjoyed the way pens scratched against paper... The sound of the tool as it left its streaks of ink against a page was gentle to the ears...

Billy liked it; Dr Horrible- however- did not.

And he especially didn't like when he found himself idly scribbling on a nearby sheet of paper without his real comprehension. It was almost instinct by now... To find whatever surface he could and... Just scribble. To draw all over it like a fourth grader- bored out of their mind with a droning school teacher.

It was almost humiliating to him... Certainly, it wouldn't be something to be proud of- someone finding out that one of the more dangerous members of the ELE was an avid doodler on the side...

Originally, he gave himself excuses for such a bad habit- or at least what he considered a bad habit; It helped him sketch out the layouts and blueprints for his plans... It assisted in the visualization of the algorithms he needed for his inventions...

Eventually, though, it all grew too tiresome... To bothersome to make excuses for. He didn't like the habit, but he accepted it as something he did... Sometimes, he would just... Draw... Mindlessly scribbling against any loose leaf paper scraps he could find...

He hesitated to admit, but he even had a preferred pen for the task. A special one. One of those bulkier ones you could get at the dollar store, for any price but a dollar- one of the ones with four different ink colors... It almost made scribbling seem less of a nasty little habit... He wasn't quite sure why- maybe merely because it felt better to hold something with so many buttons and keys- things that clicked and dipped at his touch... It wasn't foreign...

Though it was nowhere as satisfying as the way his fingers gently glided against the handles, levers, and triggers of all his magnificently sleek inventions, it was closer than anything else would have been...

The dinky little four color pen; black, blue, red, and green. Those were the colors he had at his disposal...

Most of the papers he had covered in his absentminded state had been cast off to the side somewhere- if one searched hard enough it wouldn't be too much of a trial to find them. Although it'd be difficult to see what most of them were supposed to be at first.

He scribbled, sure, but that didn't mean he was an artist.

Sheets upon sheets of paper were tattooed with the delicate strokes of the pen's ink; loosely freehanded sketches of his inventions, mainly. Rays, and guns- tubes and beakers.

Sometimes, he'd sketch something he had never built before... Something he probably would never be able to build at all. Wild, abstract machines... With wild, abstract purposes, more often than not... Split into hand drawn parts- sometimes down to the size and shape of the bolts which would hold it together... Of course, after sketching such things, he'd barely give them a second thought, afterwards...

Sometimes, he'd find himself sketching the same little shape over and over... Sometimes it was nothing more than a circle... just a small, hollow dot on the page... And he'd merely continue to add more after that, splaying them out against a page like small grapes on a vine, insuring the first one didn't turn out lonely...

And sometimes- very rarely, but sometimes- he'd sketch people... He found that Hammer to be a good candidate for his occasional sketching sprees...

Of course, having close to no drawing talent whatsoever, the Doctor made the man's bulky figure from merely a little rectangle, with a square head, and a dopey, stupid expression. And of course, being the man he was- the horrible man he was- the miniature Captain Hammer was never in safe hands... Always hurt... Injured or bleeding in some way- the red ink did a good job assisting with those types of drawings...

Occasionally- maybe once or twice- he absentmindedly drew himself. Though he never quite liked the way he turned out, and most pathetic 'self portraits' were viciously scribbled over mere seconds after he had finished them...

And then... Once in a blue moon... He'd sketch her...

He never stopped himself whenever he caught himself doing it... It almost felt sort of wrong to do so... It was the only type of drawing he put any legitimate effort into...

The black ink would always make up her frame, and the red helped to make up her hair- cascading down past her shoulders in soft strokes of the utensil... A small, rounded nose, and a slightly parted mouth- sometimes even a smile... But never a frown. Never had he drawn her with a frown.

All his drawings of Penny were incomplete... He could never bring himself to finish... The closest he would ever get would be the majority of her frame, her face... Everything but her eyes... The emeralds which originally twinkled with so much life, and hope... Almost disgustingly so... And a part of him- the Horrible in him- wanted to find himself disgusted by it...

But the Billy in him would not let him.

They settled on a compromise. The eyes would be forgotten altogether...

Lazily, he dragged the tip of the pen delicately against an old, unneeded sheet of blueprint- outlining the boxes in a nice green shade, when a knock pulled him from his idling state.

As much as he hated his doodling habit, being interrupted- from anything, really- ticked him off even more,

"What is it, Moist?"

"I just came to give you your mail..." Was the reply he received- muffled through the barrier of the door to block them from each other... Mail... Most of it junk, probably. It's all it ever was anymore; it's not as if he'd get any new letters from Bad Horse now that he was in the ELE. Any important information was given straight, face to face.

The admittedly disappointing answer pulled a sigh through his lips,

"Did you use the gloves this time?"

"Yes..."

Tossing the pen with lackluster effort halfway or so across his desk, he pushed himself backwards, and then out of his chair. The door moaned with age as he opened it, the unamused expression he wore certainly not the best sight for poor Moist to see.

He extended what mail he had retrieved to the Doctor, the unnaturally long gloves which covered his hands from elbow to fingertips ensuring no potentially important documents were tarnished with sweat.

"You're dismissed." Was the only thanks the henchman received as the Doctor closed the door shut rather swiftly- too swiftly for Moist to speak another word.

He collapsed back upon his chair with little care for persuasion, scanning through what mail he had received over the past few days or so, and throwing everything unimportant- or simply unwanted- to the side. Only when his hands were free of anything else did he realize that there was nothing critical here for him, just as he suspected.

Just more blank canvases for his terrible habits, he supposed...


End file.
